Withering
by AotA
Summary: Snippets of fics that never went anywhere. Likely never to go any further than what is seen in this collection of neglected, withered seedling stories.
1. Pandemonium

Pandemonium

Chrono Crusade/Transformers crossover

Chrono sat in his chair, chin resting on his fist, amber eyes distant and unfocused. There was a giggle, the soft pad of bare feet across the decking behind him, and then small, slim hands covered his eyes. "Guess who," the owner of the hands chirped sing-song.

"Rosette..." He chuckled, ears flicking back a little, "I know it's you. No matter how many times you try, my answer isn't going to change." He captured her wrists and lowered her hands so that he could turn and look at her. He gave her a slightly lopsided smile, "You silly goose."

Rosette pouted, "You're supposed to indulge me."

He laughed and placed a kiss against one of her palms, "But I already do."

The pout faded for a moment before reasserting itself. "No you don't," she challenged, "Not enough."

"More?" Chrono asked, amused, easily catching the smile that was hidden behind the pout. "Demanding little thing," he teased, gently drawing her around the chair so that she stood in front of him before releasing her. He thought it was funny that even like this, with him sitting down, he was still taller than her when she was standing.

Rosette's hands landed on her hips and she leaned forward, "Don't call me little!"

"But you are," Chrono protested with a smile.

"No, I'm not," she growled, poking a finger at his chest with each word for emphasis.

"Yes you a-," he began to say when an alert blared and they both instantly snapped apart, all bantering forgotten. Rosette dashed toward a console, unheeding of her bare feet while Chrono kicked a lever and spun his chair about, sliding slightly to the side. He leaned over a display fingers flashing through many screens before he called out, "Bearing 050, minus 299, minus 025! Contact unknown!"

Rosette growled as the console finally opened up and practically swallowed her. A large hood coming to rest over her head as the chair rose up into the air slightly, and swiveled in the direction Chrono had named, "I see them! ...But what the hell are they?" There was a faint grinding resonated within the ship as it struggled to obey Rosette's commands to bring weapons to bear, "Chrono, please, _please_ tell me that the cloak is working now?"

Chrono checked the progress of the repair and flinched, "Still a no go on that."

"Dammit!" she cursed, "_Why_ did we have to get stranded all the way out here?" If there was a whine in her voice they both ignored it.

They couldn't run, they couldn't hide, they couldn't shoot. They were sitting ducks.

What they weren't expecting was a strange electronic tone to come over the comm, followed by something that sounded strangely like, "Ba weep, gra na weep, ni ni bong."

"Eh?" Chrono stared at the speaker nearest him.

"Chronoooo," Rosette drawled, "_What the hell was that?_"

"Umm..." he said, baffled, "I think they're trying to talk to us?"

Rosette's weapons console disengaged slightly and she stared at him, "What?"

_No one_ ever wanted to "talk" to them, so really, talking was good. They actually _could_ do that. Or at least try to. Though Chrono had no idea what whatever it was that had been said to them meant. It was better than "Shoot first, as questions never." Chrono flipped the inter-ship comm on and tentatively spoke, "Hello?"

More of those electronic sounds, strange rumblings, chirrs, chirps, and whirrs, and then Chrono's own voice was parroted back at him, "Hello?"

He shared a glance with Rosette before he tried carefully tried a Pandemonium greeting, "Rrawk, shayaﾗ"

He didn't get any further before the voice on the other side blared out in angry Pandemonium, "Devils!" Oh, Chrono flinched, so they did know Pandemonium... Great.

"Plague upon worlds!" the strangely metallic sounding voice growled.

"No!" Chrono pleaded, "We're not with Pandemonium!"

"Devils? _Not_ with the organic Destroyer?" the voice sounded rather skeptical, "Don't make me laugh."

"Just one-," Chrono tried to say.

"Liar," the voice retorted, "Our sensors read two life forms on your ship."

There were more of the sounds that Chrono had realized was probably their language and Rosette made a choking sound and began muttering a fast chorus of "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit..." as their own sensors read a powerful weapon arming.

"The other one's a human!" he shouted, claws digging into the console, knuckles turning white, "No matter what my kind have done, she is innocent!"

There was a strangely muted sounding speech on the other side of the comm and a long silence before the entity on the other side growled, "Surrender and prepare for boarding, _Devil_."

"We surrender," Chrono said without hesitation, "Our ship is just so damaged... I don't know how you'd make it in here..."

"Hah!" the other being gave a shrilly metallic whistle of laughter, "As if we'd be able to come on board. _You_ will be coming aboard _our_ ship."

"Um... Chrono?" Rosette said in a small voice, "Are they going to kill us or not? Because they are getting closer and there is no way we are going to be able to beat them." In a rather faint sounding voice she added, "They're _massive_."

"I think they're going to bring us into their ship somehow," Chrono told her, wishing yet again that she knew Pandemonium. It would make things much easier for the both of them. He counted himself lucky that she could work the relatively simple weapons systems. Or at least not blow the both of them up trying to use them.

"Was that the 'human'?" the other demanded.

"Yes," Chrono said, "Her name is Rosette Christopher. She is a member of an organization that protects her people from devils."

"And she hasn't killed you? A shame," the other drawled. There was a faint rumble over the comm and the other spoke again, "Prepare for boarding, Devil."

The ship was directly on top of them, and as Rosette had said... it was a positively gargantuan creation of metal that dwarfed them many, many, many times over. Strange clunks shot through the ship and with a jolt, they were being drawn directly into the belly of the ship, as if they were being swallowed whole.

"Oh... Dear... God," Rosette prayed, "Please let them be friendly."

Chrono grimaced. He didn't know who it was that Pandemonium had pissed off in these beings, but at least they seemed to not want to harm someone who was innocent of Pandemonium's horrors. "I don't think they'll hurt you, Rosette," he tried to reassure her. _He_ was a completely different matter entirely.

She gave him a _look_. "But what about _you_?"

Chrono looked away. If it would save Rosette, he didn't care if they tossed him in whatever passed for their brig. Or even killed him. To him, Rosette was more infinitely more important than he was or ever would be.

Another jolt sent the both of them sprawling to the deck and Rosette let out a cry of pain. Chrono dragged himself up and staggered as the ship moved again before coming to a stop. "Rosette?"

"Ouchies," Rosette hissed, curling around her arm.

Chrono knelt by her side, carefully propping her up, "Rosette?"

"I'm okay," she said through gritted teeth as she leaned against his shoulder, though the tears that she was blinking away said otherwise, as did the way she continued to protectively hold her hurt arm. "I'm fine," she said breathily.

Chrono coaxed her hand away from her arm and winced seeing the awkward angle it lay in, "No, you're not, little one."

Rosette's eyes slit dangerously, "Don't. Call. Me. That."

Chrono sighed, gingerly picking her up. He much preferred her spitting fire than in pain, and he was as good an outlet as any at the moment. "Good luck making me stop, Rosette," he murmured into her hair. She would always be his little one, so he wasn't going to stop, not even when she died.

Humans' lives were so painfully short.

Ignoring her broken arm, she punched him with her good one.


	2. Autobot Prime, Decepticon Second and Thi

Autobot Prime, Decepticon Second and Third

Summary: Sometimes, Jazz is a Decepticon. Sometimes, Prowl is. In this case, both are former Decepticons of a particularly vicious reputation and they both somehow wind up right and left hands to their Prime. Meister... meet Barricade. Barricade, Meister.

Notes: After seeing various Decepticon ! Prowls and Decepticon!Jazzs where the romance is always cross factional, with one "good" and one "bad" mech. I decided that it would be interesting to work wrangle a pair of Prowl and Jazz defectors to the Autobot side in which they were BOTH former Decepticons.

-=A=-

Barricade's optics followed the obvious purple brands as the soldiers marched by.

_When, he wondered, did this happen?_ Barricade had seen the Decepticon mark on several mechs outside of his unit, but few within it had one. to suddenly see nothing but brands wherever he turned was unnerving. The next mech with that brand that he saw, he would snare to question. Barricade didn't like having his unit associated with an organization without him catching wind of it in the slightest.

_I might be a Military Enforcer instead of straight military_, Barricade thought darkly, _but I am still part of this unit._

He withdrew to his office and sank down into his chair, placing the most recent report on his desk.

Barricade frowned at a report that lay so innoxiously on the corner of his desk. It was entirely unmarked, lacking even customary manufacturing marks. He slid it closer, scrutinizing it carefully. He turned it on after making sure it had no networking capabilities.

The old fashioned data pad's screen lit up and the name written at the top of the document had him frowning even more deeply. Barricade drew a stylus out of subspace and scrolled through the text, agitation growing with each word he read.

As soon as he finished reading he slammed the pad back down and shut it off. Barricade growled angrily. This orn was not a good one, and it looked as if it was only going to get worse. He shuttered his optics and cycled his cooling fans in resignation, trying to bleed off the heat from his anger.

_Decepticons one and all, then_, Barricade thought, restraining his rage with steely will. _Decepticon or not_, he growled, _they are my mechs, and they are my unit._

Barricade switched the pad back on, signed it with angry strokes, and sent the encrypted reply back from whence it came. As soon as the deed was done, he crushed the data pad in his claws with a snarl in a flash of temper.

Letting the shards of metal and sparking wiring fall through his fingers and clatter to the surface of his desk, he watched with dispassionate optics. "Do your worst," he intoned flatly to the emptiness of his office, "I will stand."

-=A=-

Barricade hissed as he ordered his mechs to fall back. This was a foolhardy stunt of a mission from the beginning, but his direct superiors weren't listening to him. Barricade hated idiots in position of authority with a passion that burned coldly.

The ignominy grated on a tactician sparked and programmed.

Decepticons only listened to his plans so much as they could imagine that they came up with them themselves and Barricade was reduced to prowling behind the lines and slitting energon lines of sleeping mechs. Barricade made a good assassin but it was not what he was made to do.

As the war began in earnest, Barricade felt himself only grow colder.

-=A=-

Meister clenched his hands into fists as he muted his vocalizer so that he couldn't say the scathing insults more than ready to fly in the face of his handler. Diamondclaw wouldn't be amused in the slightest, the fragger. He had no choice but of work for the slaggers who had brought about the death of his creator when they had taken Polyhex.

He only tuned in when Diamondclaw stopped talking at him and dismissed him. When his handler's back was turned to him and disappearing down the hall, Meister allowed himself to snarl soundlessly after him.

Meister forced himself to relax.

He wouldn't, he _couldn't_ kill Diamondclaw. Not yet. No matter how much it burned at him.

Glancing at the data and holographic image, Meister took in the appearance of the mech he was going to look like for the next several vorns. He was going to be the angry, vengeance hunting, Autobot Slicer. A "great way to sort the gem stones from the silica" Diamondclaw had said. Meister growled. Angry and hungry for vengeance?

He could do that.

-=A=-

Barricade remained as silent as he was capable of being as he dodged an Autobot patrol as they rushed past. _Why is it_, he demanded of no one, _that when I want to_ kill _an Autobot by sneaking into their bases, I have no problems..._

Barricade dashed left, darted right, transformed into his alt mode to squeeze through a tight spot and back so that he could shimmy down an unattended maintenance shaft.

_...yet when I come without harmful intentions in mind, everything is suddenly infinitely more difficult?_

Once he reached the bottom of the shaft, he froze in place. The chaos of the battle outside would in no way guarantee his safety. He scanned his surroundings as covertly as possible for cameras and sensor trips.

When there were no sign of any, Barricade prowled forward, trailing his claws along the walls, feeling for an access panel. There was a snag and he pried the panel open. He ran his fingers over the revealed components blind, _Got it._

He fed a data wire into the mess of wires, feeling the pulses running through the insulated strands for the one he needed. _Where are youﾅ __Ah! There!_

Barricade scratched off some insulation and jammed in the tip of his tap into the exposed wire. Immediately he began infiltrating the data net, cracking the multiple levels of encryptions through brute force in mere instants. He didn't need finesse at the moment, what he needed was _speed._

...And he was through.

_Where are you hiding, Optimus Prime?_

Silver Moon stared at the tap, anger that had subsided over the vorns suddenly beginning to reemerge. How _dare_ they? Slowly his claws closed, crushing the deactivated device. How _dare_ they? A haze of white covered his optics as his entire frame shook with pure unadulterated rage. _How_ dare _they?_

"_Damn_ you, Diamondclaw," Silver Moon said lowly, voice frozen, "Your death was _mine_."

"Hey, Silver!" one of his "comrades" called out, "What're you doing all the way over there?"

Silver Moon took a moment to draw on the appearance of calm before he called back, "I'm _thinking_, Rattle, I know that it's a foreign idea to you but _please_ get with the program here!"

"Suck slag, Silver!" Rattle shouted back.

The mech's face twisted. _I think I already have, Rattle. I think that I already have. That's the problem, dammit._ "Oh frag you, Rattle-trap! Go bother some other mech!"

"Shut the Pit up! Both of you! Now!" Pen barked.


	3. Hatchling

Hatchling

Tiny optics glowed dimly within the pod, equally tiny claws flexed slightly as a young processor analyzed and indexed the contents of the podﾒs exterior, the liquid he was suspended within, and the small specks of material that swirled, glinting in the light of the outside yet again. Faint vibrations, steps, sent the metallic particles which were formed of countless nanites responsible for constructing him dancing. The optics shifted, trying to pick up the one that he knew as his caretaker simply as a dark shadow on a canvas of shadows through the obscuring film of his pod. The caretaker was an enormous being, the young one knew, as towering shadow moved past. He was probably only about as big as one of the caretakerﾒs many fingers on one of his many hands, if he judged correctly, from seeing the shadows of the caretakerﾒs hands against his pod every now and then.

The caretakerﾒs shadow passed by again and the tiny optics followed it until it was out of sight. Then they shut off. The youngling would have to wait some more.

Dimly, in a vague sort of way, the youngling wondered when he would leave with the caretaker. He had seen the caretaker carrying other pods, so it wasnﾒt unreasonable to believe the same would occur with him. But that would not be this orn, he knew, so he settled down to wait yet again. It was better to let time pass, drifting in half awareness so that he did not have to count every moment until his time came.

He just wished that the caretaker would come back soon.


	4. He Who Catches the Sun

He Who Catches the Sun

"So what did you do before the war?" Jazz asked, curious. He had never heard anything about what the TIC had been before the war, unlike every other mech on the base. It was rather odd, because even though no one _knew_ what Jazz had been, there was still rumors that flew back and forth. Not hearing _anything_ was suspicious.

Prowl frowned at him, but it wasn't a "get out of my office, miscreant" frown so Jazz waited. "I was not anything, Jazz."

Jazz waited for an elaboration but quickly realized that there wasn't one forthcoming and threw his hands up, "You had to have been _something!_ You can't have just appeared out of thin air."

"In a manner of speaking, I did, in fact, 'appear out of thin air' as you said, Jazz," Prowl said, his optics shutting off as he devoted more of his processing power to his work.

"Uh huh, and you did thisﾅ how?" Jazz drawled, leaning forward to the point of almost touching Prowl.

Prowl's optics lit and he stared at Jazz, "It is quite simple. I am the end product of a rigorous personality reassignment and was then redesignated as Prowl when the reassignment was completed."

Jazz gaped. He had heard of things like that happening but he had never _met_ one before. Or at least he hadn't thought he hadﾅ but then he hadn't expected endlessly rule abiding _Prowl_ to have been deemed such an irredeemable loss to society that he had had that done to him. Not even _Sunstreaker_, psychotic berserker that he was, would have been put up for personality reassignment, even if he had the wartime personality that he had cultivated back then. "That'sﾅ" dizzying. "What the pit did you _do?_"

"It is not so much anything that I _did_ so much as what I _was_ that led to my personality reassignment," Prowl said dispassionately. He looked away, and picked up visual pad and flipped through several secure feeds before making a notation and switching it off and setting it aside. "I glitched too often and my creators could not handle the care that my overly sensitive existence required. When my upgrades did not lead to better tolerance of stressors they gave me to the evaluation board."

"That's _it?_" Jazz choked, outraged, "You _glitched?_" How could _anyone_ do that to their creation? He knew that his own would have _never_ done anything of the sort.

Prowl gave Jazz a quizzical look, "Of course. I could not function productively in society. They were well within their rights to do what they did. It was the proper thing to do."

Jazz could see in that look that Prowl saw nothing wrong with what he was saying but Jazz was just struggling with the fact that they could _do_ something like that to _Prowl_. Trying for nonchalant, Jazz tried to not appear as disturbed as he was, "So what was your designation before?"

Prowl seemed to trying to figure out his angle before he gave one of his minimalistic shrugs, "I was called Suncatcher."

Jazz forced his jaw to stay shut. He _recognized_ that designation. This was going to be a conversation of revelations. Suncatcher had been a critically acclaimed artist that had been as popular with the critics as the general public and just as elusive. Jazz knew that Sunstreaker's designation had been a play off of Suncatcher's and the vain mech looked up to Suncatcher with almost worshipful reverence. The problem wasﾅ Suncatcher had been listed as _dead_.

Jazz looked at Prowl with fresh vision, wondering how Prowl and the mysterious Suncatcher, the mysterious, apparently glitched Suncatcher, could be the same mech. The problem was that he had no frame of reference.

"Do you still paint?" Jazz had to ask.

"No," Prowl's head tilted, "How did you know that I painted?"

"How did Iﾅ" Jazz rasped, "You're _famous_, Prowl. Pit. Sunstreaker _named himself_ after you."

"Ahﾅ" Prowl looked uncomfortable, nearly ready to start backing away, "I can no longer do artwork of any kind, Jazz. And I sincerely doubt I am the mech you are thinking of."

"No," Jazz said, "I'm pretty sure I have the right mech." Jazz grabbed Prowl's arm and began tugging the mech along, "We need to talk to Optimus."

Prowl followed along behind Jazz mostly to indulge the higher ranking officer than in belief that Jazz was right. Jazz barged right into a meeting with the humans, "Prime!"

Optimus looked up and saw Jazz "dragging" an uncomfortable looking Prowl behind him. "Yes, Jazz?"

"You know Suncatcher, right?"

"The artist?" Optimus asked, puzzled.

"I found out what happened to him," Jazz growled and nudged Prowl forward a few steps.

Optimus looked between his two officers, one radiating tightly contained fury, the other as uncomfortable as he ever got. "I believe he was listed as deceased."

"He isn't dead, Prime."

"He is," Prowl interrupted, frowning down at Jazz, "and I don't see why you are making such a big deal out of this."

Optimus frowned even as Prowl began denying it and dismissed himself from the meeting and shut off the communications equipment, leaving only the soldiers that were in charge of controlling them.

"No, he isn't," Jazz told him, "He had a personality reassignment." He pointed a claw at the TIC, "Meet Prowl, formerly Suncatcher."

Optimus stared at his TIC, "Is this true?"

Prowl stood straighter, "Yes sir. Though I do believe that I am being mistaken me for someone else. I was never famous, and what artworks I finished were not fit for public viewing. Most I simply abandoned because they were not good enough."

"So sure about that, are you?" Jazz asked.

"Of course," Prowl said.

"Could you show us what some of them looked like?" Prime interrupted, seeing that this wouldn't go anywhere if the two were left to argue it out themselves.

A lost expression appeared on Prowl's face. "ﾅOf course, sir." He pulled a pad that neither of the officers had seen before, an artist's pad similar to the kind that Sunstreaker had dragged around with him the entire war. It wasn't as high quality though and extremely worn, but the holographic function worked as well as, or perhaps even better, than the more expensive version.

The first thing that appeared was a work of art that anyone with even a passing familiarity with art would have recognized, but Prowl quickly switched to a different projection. Stopping him, Prime held up a hand, "Wait, what was the first one? Is that one of yours?"

Prowl switched the projection back, grudgingly, "Yes, sir. An unfinished piece. It was destroyed before I had the opportunity to finish it."

Optimus exchanged glances with Jazz who had a helpless, enraged expression on his face. "Unfinished?"

Prowl was becoming suspicious, "Yes. A great many of my pieces were destroyed in an accident."

Optimus shook his head at Jazz, "Can you show us some of the others?" That such a famous piece was considered _unfinished_ by its creatorﾅ

"Of course," Prowl showed a number of projections, each of them either all too familiar to the mechs, or in the style that had been quintessential Suncatcher. Eventually, it was too much for Optimus to take and he placed his large hand over Prowl's claws.

"Enough, Prowl," Optimus said sadly, "Enough." He pressed the pad to Prowl's chest plates and pulled his TIC into an embrace. "You _are_ Suncatcher. No matter how or why you came to be Prowl, you are still Suncatcher, and a great many mourned when they heard the news of your death. That artﾅ we know it all as the work of a great artist."

"Impossible," Prowl denied.

"It's true," Jazz shook his head.

"Thenﾅ if I wasﾅ famous like you say I amﾅ" Prowl asked, "ﾅThen why?"

Why would his creators have his personality reassigned? Why would they hide that Suncatcher was famous from him? Why would they tell him that his art was destroyed?

"I don't know, Prowl," Optimus told him, "It shouldn't have happened."

Prowl made a choking sound that was the sign of an imminent meltdown and tried to back away. Familiar with the signs, Optimus held on, knowing what would happen next. He didn't let go of Prowl until he felt the mech's body lock up. When he supported Prowl, Optimus looked down at his TIC's unlit optics sadly.

Jazz turned away with a soft sound of rage? Grief? Disgust? Whatever it was, Optimus couldn't decipher it. "He told me that believed that his creators were entirely in the right doing what they did to him. His _creators!_ It's not right, Prime. They took everything that he was away from him and he thinks it was because he had a _glitch_." Jazz glared at the far wall, "I don't think that he even knows if he is able to paint. He said he couldn't anymore, at least."

"We will have to see, Jazz," Optimus said sadly, picking up Prowl and cradling him in his arms, "but we can at least be thankful that so many important relics of our kind were preserved."

"_Thankful?_" Jazz spat, then seemed to draw in on himself, "ﾅI wasn't expecting this. I was just wondering what Prowl had done before the war. And then he goes and tells me that he had a _personality reassignment_ of all thingsﾅ" The SIC seemed dazed. "It just seems so unreal."

"We will fix this," Optimus said. He didn't know how, but they would.


	5. Old and Young

Old and Young

He couldn't remember where he had been sparked. He honestly could care less about it, if not for the fact that the current social standards placed such great importance on such a pointless thing. He couldn't remember when he had been sparked either. He wasﾅ old. It was difficult to tell though, because he had been broken down and rebuilt so many times that the only thing that was the same from the time he had been sparked was hisﾅ well, spark. His body was young now, all systems running optimally, his paint a mere polish away from shining, and his processing hardware top notch for once.

If he hadn't been slagged to a stubborn spark and almost fried processor a number of vorns ago, he would have made do with his almost _critically_ outdated processors and countless programming patches. It wasn't exactly a pleasant thing to have a medic go about swapping around critical mental components. The transfer of his files from his destroyed processors had left him with a little more corruption in the files, a little more degradation of things that had occurred so long ago that he didn't even find the lack disturbing. The only problem was that his coding was so old he was having compatibility issues popping up like turbo-rats.

And that was how he had wound up in this situation, having accidentally stumbled into a heated fight between two different groups and that problem was compounded by a glitch suddenly deciding to grow to an overwhelming issue. He could not duck and wrestle with his unruly processor at the same time. Unfortunately.

Prowl (a designation that he had adopted when he had once lost most of his memory files but not his base personality routinesﾗhe was pretty sure that it was not his original one.) stared up at a hideously orange ceiling blankly. There was a dull throbbing in his head that told him the instabilities in his processors were still giving him fits. _Ow._ The orange did not help any. Why would anyone paint a ceiling _orange?_ Prowl let the question chase circles through his processors not particularly caring if he came up with an answer or not for once. It was purely youngling speculation to entertain himself. It truly was awful though.

The faint whoosh of a door opening had Prowl turning his head to observe the new occupant of the place that he had found himself. _Hmmmﾅ __A medic?_ The mech certainly had the numerous redundant features and the bulk that came of it. Lightly armed as well, at least in comparison to what so many mechs had begun integrating as a matter of course. War was coming. The medic stood at the side of the berth and began scrolling through what was probably comparatively nonvital information as Prowl could tell that there were alarms connected to his vital systems. A sudden sound of surprise had Prowl wondering what was wrong.

"You're _online?_" For some reason the medic sounded incredulous.

Prowl turned his optics straight toward him, "Yes."

"How the Pit did you manage that? You should be dead to the world right now." The medic certainly seemed to believe what he was saying, but Prowl had long since learned that medical treatment was a gray area for him. Some treatments worked well. Others might as well have been blank data for all the effect they had on him.

"I am not normal," Prowl said without inflection, bored with the reaction, not caring that his unlit optics were probably unnerving the medic. Lit optics were a waste of energy when he could see sufficiently without. Perhaps "see" was the wrong word. His sensor wings picked up all the necessary spatial data that he might need and more. "Where am I and what is your designation?" Obtain information. Evaluate the situation.

"You're on the Arc, a heavily armored intergalactic transport, currently serving as an Autobot base. My designation is Ratchet. What's yours?"

"Prowl," he said, "What about my condition led you to believe I should still be in stasis?" It was always interesting to hear explanations, interpretations, and other ideas that mechs came up to explain Prowl. They were always different, and usually somewhat entertaining. Unless the mech in question favored vivisection. That was unpleasant.


	6. Pluralis Majestatis

Pluralis Majestatis

"Greetings Major Lennox," the gunmetal grey, still in protoform mech said, "We are pleased to meet you. We are called Prowl."

Will had been warned in advance about this, but it was pretty disorienting. "Welcome to Earth, Prowl."

"Yes..." Prowl paused before his armor suddenly reconfigured, "Ah, we have found our alternate mode."

Prowl was now a striking black and white and slim panels that had risen from his back were now recognizable as doors of some kind arranged in a way that distinctly reminded Will of a butterfly.

"Police?" Will asked. It was pretty obvious, but polite to ask. He could see lettering on the doors easily enough but he didn't recognize the model. Of course, these guys were regular jigsaw puzzles anyway so it was a bit of a challenge guessing what went where.

"A yet-to-be produced model we adapted for better mass management," Prowl's expression was wry, "Jazz was bitching that our aft was too large to get a "sexy" model here. He attempted to convince us to cram ourself into a Dodge Charger."

"Ahﾅ hah," Will laughed uncomfortably. What was someone supposed to say when a person you hardly knew came out with personal information like that? His mind momentarily wandered into places it probably shouldn't. Places with black and white, and silver, and more black and white. Ack. Bad brain.

"I must ask you about your practices involving how you believe your people will perceive relationships. I have noticed that you have strict fraternization regulations, especially between those in command positions."

"We doﾅ but I don't think that's going to be your main issue," Will grimaced. He had noticed that the mechs had no real perception or preconceptions about the idea of different sexes and that tended to cause a bit of friction between them and humans, who did. The fact that Prowl was "bonded" to Jazz caused issues because they both used male voices even though only the completely blind could deceive themselves that they were actually male. It was the principle of the thing. Personally Will had decided to view it as one of those ancient shield brothers things. Like the Romans. It was really the politicians that choked on it. Unfortunately.

"Truly?" Prowl asked, sounding slightly intrigued as the other body that Will had been told was _also_ Prowl strode up looking like a mirror image of the one that he was talking to.


	7. Untitled

"Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it whether it exists or not, diagnosing it incorrectly, and applying the wrong remedy." -Ernest Benn

Optimus watched, audials turned resolutely _off_ as Prowl ranted and raved, soundlessly, pacing back and forth in front of the Optimus' desk, his face contorting in the most intriguing of ways as his hands waved expressively through the air. Prowl had been going on and on for so long that Optimus had forgotten what the mech had even gotten so worked up about in the first place. He was too engrossed in Prowl-watching to remember either.

So of course, when Prowl finally turned to him, with frustration and entreaty in his optics, Optimus had nothing to say but: "Do what you think is best, Prowl."

Prowl's frustration didn't diminish in the slightest, instead flaring behind his golden optics, but the mech inclined his head, "Thank you, sir." He left, wings remaining at their tellingly aggravated angle.

Optimus watched him go, wondering if he should have been listening. He shrugged and returned to the game that he had been playing on his console... to find that in the intervening time between Prowl coming into his office and Prowl leaving, he had managed to be killed. Optimus slumped. Now he was going to have to start all over again.


End file.
